


And the Band...

by dBa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-05
Updated: 2011-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-21 01:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/219331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dBa/pseuds/dBa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the rise of the Dark Lord, Hermione and Neville have been sent into hiding to train for the resistance. But help seems less and less likely as the days pass...</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Band...

Desolate. Such a word, she thought, seems almost self-descriptive. _Probably doesn't have a lot of friends in the dictionary. Not that I know what that's like._ She blinked away sudden tears.

"Wind's picking up." Yes, that was it. Never mind the fact that she was talking to herself. It was, though, gusting across the cold open plains, whipping around her as if to batter her down. "Get in line." Said? Thought? She wasn't sure.

Hand out, pushing against the wind. The wards pushed back, false warmth in the cold bluster, tickling corners of her mind she had not dared to explore in months. _Good enough. Not that there's much choice._

The rough wooden door groaned as she fought the wind to pull it open, banging shut behind her as she took the steps down, one-two, one-two, tendrils of the cold outside air reaching through the gap-toothed slats. Grey sunlight struggled to light the stairs, uneven glowing patches making the unlit remainder that much darker.

She didn't notice. Her eyes were closed.

 _One-two, one-two, one— ah!_ The bottom landing, count perfect. The stairs were her defense, mental as well as physical. Endless bone-wearying climbs, unending descents, a mindscape Escher himself would have been proud of had he known of their side-along world.

 _Perhaps he did,_ she thought, a hint of a smile on her lips. _That would certainly explain some things._

She opened her eyes, ignoring the cool glow of the ancient mausoleum, cold witch-light on lifeless marble. The next-to-last tomb on the right, plaque shining bright in the timeless still of the chamber.

No need to read the names. They were hers, and his, transmuted into Russian and with dates three centuries past.

Another step, her legs disappearing into the cold marble of the tomb. And another. One-two.

* * *

 

He was still asleep, snoring lightly in the mess of blankets and pillows that passed for their bed. She poured herself a cup of weak tea, held it tight. The heat warmed her chilled hands, the warmth of the room slowly working on the bone-chill brought on by her excursion.

She walked over to the pallet, nudged him gently with her bare foot. Nothing. Another nudge, harder.

"Geroff." Just barely audible, his face still buried in a pillow.

She snorted, poked at him again. He rolled over, then, blinking up at her, clearly fighting the urge to roll over and go back to sleep.

"Enough of that," she said. Was fairly certain she said. Smiled. "I made some tea."

"Can't be much left." He had managed to struggle to something resembling a seated position, one blanket still pulled up tight around his bare skin. He was always cold, now. Shivering against her at night, no matter how thick the skins were piled. Never enough energy.

"No," she said, voice quiet. She held out the mug.

A long moment as they looked at each other. His arm snaked out from under the blankets, thin and bony, hand wrapping around the cup—mug, really, the fading black-and-white linework of a prancing pegasus still moving despite the wear—and bringing it to his lips. He sipped, cautious. She could see the disgust, just for a moment, before he looked up at her and smiled. "Thanks. 'Sgood."

"Quite welcome," she said, turning so he couldn't see. No wind down here to blame it on. Busied herself with pouring into another mug, this one mundane. Busied herself with blowing the steam away. Busied herself with not thinking as she sat down on the hard wooden bench, facing but not looking at him.

"One of us is going to have to go," he said. She looked up at him, his big brown eyes unblinking in the low lamplight. "We've got nothing left here."

"They were supposed to bring—"

"They're dead, Hermione. You know that. You felt it." His voice slow, implacable, nearly emotionless. He looked down into the mug of almost-tea, as if unable to meet her gaze. Searching for something.

"We don't know that for sure," she said, her voice steady. Facts were her trade, after all.

"They are. I know. I felt—"

" _Fuck_ what you felt, Neville, and fuck you for being so damned—" The anger, bright and strong, died along with the words on her lips. She didn't have the energy to argue any more. She sighed, blew more curling steam away.

"Reasonable?" He smiled, something she hadn't seen in a while. Entirely too long. "That's me. Good old reasonable Neville Longbottom, undaunted by the death of friends and family."

"That's not what I—" she spluttered.

"I know," he said, waving her off. "It doesn't matter anyway. Dead or not, we haven't had new supplies in weeks. One of us is going to have to—"

"I'll go," she said, then finally took a sip. Like drinking hot dishwater. Forced herself to swallow.

"You don't have to," he said. "I can—"

"You can stay right the fuck where you are," she replied. "We— I'm not losing you now. Not after all this."

"All right," he said, smiling again, but she could see the sadness there. "Ladies first, after all."

* * *

 

They ate quietly, the final bits of cured meat and stale bread washed down with cold water. Neville had wanted her to eat all of their remaining stores, rather than splitting the meal, and she had steadfastly refused.

"I _should_ be back quickly, Neville, but if I'm not—"

"If you're not, I'll be dead anyhow, so what does it matter?"

"It matters to _me_ , damn you, you— obstinate ape!"

He had laughed, then, high and clear, which had set her to laughing too. "Ape, eh? Care to pick my fleas before you leave?"

"Not hardly." Still grinning. She had almost forgot what that felt like. "But perhaps when I get back..."

"I'll think on some other sort of animal behaviour to debase myself with. You know beasts aren't my strong suit."

"Yes, well. We can hardly pollinate each other."

"Might be worth a shot."

They hugged, then, short and fierce. Neville pulled away, gently turned Hermione's face with his still-cool hand.

"See you soon, alright?" His voice dropped. "And don't—" Trailed off into silence. She could see tears glistening in his eyes.

"Don't worry. I'll be back."

"Yeah," he said, finding his composure. "See you then."

She comported herself as best she could, checking in a small dusty hand-mirror that she was at least reasonably presentable. A check of her pockets; the portkeys needed for the journey jangled against each other, reassuring. She turned back to say something more to Neville, some further gentle barb of the sort they'd been trading for years, but he was already curled up under the blankets again, shivering despite the warmth.

Shook her head. Stepped through the false wall, into the mausoleum, then up the stairs, one-two, one-two, one-two, pushing the door open and returning to the bracing cold air of the Russian plain. A few steps forward, the wards tingling against her skin, and she was past the protective magics that kept them safe. Or some semblance thereof. She took hold of the first portkey, a children's top, and counted quietly to herself.

The world shifted. Hot now, on the edge of a dry field that seemed to stretch for eternity, sky blue and cloudless above her head. Her breath caught in her throat for a moment. _They can kill us. But this— this is forever._ But she knew better. Had grown up in a culture of rampant overuse. Wizards were not alone with their apocalypses.

A moment, a flick of her wand, and she was cloaked in an illusion, not enough for more than a casual inspection but hopefully enough to dissuade anyone on the lookout. Not for the first time, she wished for a certain cloak she had become well-acquainted with those first few years of her new life.

 _Not now,_ she told herself, choking back the memories that threatened to flood her mind. _Neville's waiting for me. Relying on me._

Two more shifts, one-two, through a much smaller field alongside a sleepy little town somewhere (a pang, there, of a normalcy she had not experienced since, well, since she was eleven) and a dark drippy cave hot as a sauna, and then she stood at the entrance to Gringotts, looking down the twisty route of Diagon Alley.

None of the usual bustle filled the street, and what shoppers were there moved with a determination quite unlike what she remembered from years past. No one stopped to look into the storefronts. Indeed, many of the stores seemed to be closed, shuttered or vacant, missing teeth in the jaw of the skeleton that was their collapsing society.

She took a deep breath. No Dementors, no Death Eaters. Perhaps, perhaps. Headed down the stairs, walking with the same purpose the other shoppers seemed to possess. No one looked her way, and she looked at no one.

A few twists in the road, a nondescript door in a squat little building not far from Knockturn Alley. A quick check in both directions. A series of taps on the door with her wand, one-two, one-two, and it opened soundlessly. A step inside.

The building was dark, but that was easily fixed. The glow of her wand guided her through the dusty rooms, up the rickety stairs, and into a stuffy little linen closet.

No linens now, though. Unmarked boxes filled with dried fruit, hardtack, even some Muggle MREs. Someone had even—thank the gods—smuggled in some coffee beans. She couldn't remember the last time she had had coffee. Fresh food would have been better, of course, but she couldn't risk that, nor did she know when she could come back. Every trip risked the collapse of it all.

A few taps and the goods were dutifully shrinking themselves, floating their way into her open rucksack, which made no bones about holding considerably more than it should have. Once it bulged with necessities, she slipped out of the closet and began to make her way down the hall.

A creak on the steps, a muffled curse.

 _Fuck,_ she thought, whipping out her wand. "Who's there? Come out so I can see you!"

"It's me," someone replied, tantalizingly familiar. "Ginny. Hermione, is that you?" A face, now, peeking through the balusters. One she hadn't seen in over a year.

Hermione lowered her wand, ever so slightly. "Who else would it be?"

"It _is_ you," Ginny said, bounding up the rest of the stairs. "It's been— oh!"

They were hugging, now, laughing and crying at the same time. Ginny grabbed Hermione's hands. "You don't look—"

"Oh, this." She shook her head, dismissing the spell. "Secrecy and all that. Ginny, you look—"

Well-fed. Happy, almost. Words she couldn't say. Words she wouldn't say.

"Yes, well," Ginny replied, her blush visible even in the dim light. "I'm so glad I got a chance to see you."

"Yes, a chance... How _did_ you know I was here, by the way?" Hermione pulled away slightly, hand still holding her wand.

"Silent ward I put up months ago," Ginny said. "Hoping I could catch you if you came back. Not _catch_ you, you know—"

"Yes, I know." Another hug. "But... weren't wards..." Hermione trailed off.

Ginny looked away, tears already running down her cheeks. "They took her," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "Some utter bullshit about her father's paper. Sins of the parents and all that."

"God," Hermione breathed. "So that leaves—"

"Us," Ginny said. "Me the only one free. Didn't even bother coming up with an excuse for Ron, just blasted him down in some abandoned building or another. Lupin, too, not long after." Her nails dug into Hermione's arm. Neither one noticed. "Some fucking Army, eh?" She laughed, but it wasn't a happy one. Sniffed away the tears.

 _Christ,_ Hermione thought. _She's, what, sixteen now? Too fucking young. We're all too fucking young for this._ She hugged her long-time friend again. "Glad you caught me," she said, smiling.

"Yeah," Ginny said, eyes still wet with tears. "Glad I caught you too." She coughed, seemed to regain her composure. "I brought some fresh fruit and bread with me, if you'd like to bring it—"

"Oh, _bless you_ , my love!" Hermione squeezed Ginny. "I haven't had an apple in—"

"No apples," Ginny said, apologetic. "But will oranges do?"

* * *

 

The trip home was another series of jumps between places Hermione had never seen, had no interest in knowing. Her curiosity had long since been replaced by practicality. The portkeys were as close to anonymous as such things came, and with Fidelius protecting them—

She started, then. Luna was their Secret-Keeper, and the Death Eaters had her now. _No. No way. She'd rather die than tell. And there's not a damned thing we can do about it anyway, now._ She numbly counted down the last portkey, wondering just how powerful the spell was that kept non-registered wizards and witches from Apparating at will. And kept track of their location, of course. _Damn Voldemort and all his cronies._

The wind whipped through her hair, and she stepped quickly through the wards and yanked on the door. Down the steps, one-two, one-two, into the mausoleum, and through the false real tomb with the false real names.

Neville was sitting at the table, dressed in a simple shirt and breeches, his face breaking into a smile as she entered. She could see he had been crying, but he stood up and hugged her fiercely as she put the bag down on the table. Pulled her in for a slow, lingering kiss.

"I'm so glad you made it back," he said, after they could breathe again. "I was worried."

"Worry not!" She put more bluster into her voice than she had intended. Trying not to think about Luna or the others. "Got us some fresh fruit and bread, too."

Neville quirked an eyebrow.

"Ginny caught me before I left. Handed me off some oranges and crusty French bread that was still warm to the touch."

"Ah." Neville smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Nice of her."

"Yeah. She... They brought Luna in. Blamed it on her father, but we know that's a bunch of bollocks."

Neville nodded. "Luna didn't tell," he said.

"I know. But I— Ron and Lupin— She—" Only now, Hermione realized what Neville had just said. He had known, somehow. Felt it.

Neville squeezed her shoulder. "Nothing we can do." His voice low, soothing. "We knew what we were getting into, Hermione. All of us."

"I know that!" She clamped down on her anger, her hurt. "It's just— it's just _not_ fucking _fair._ "

"None of this is," Neville said. "But we do the best we can."

"Which appears to be sitting around in an old fucking crypt in the middle of Russia doing _fuck-all_." She was angry, but not at Neville. Hoped he knew that.

"Once I get over this... whatever it is," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Back to our training. It's not over yet." He smiled again. "Now, come on, before the bread turns to stone like the rest of this place."

* * *

 

It wasn't warm any more, but the crusty French loaf was still more delicious than anything she had eaten in weeks. The oranges were ripe, juicy, producing moans of pleasure from both of them. They took a moment to kiss the juices off each other's faces, laughing and giggling, before returning to the repast.

All too soon it was gone, a few fruit socked away for the next day or so. It was already late evening, so they did their best washing up in the cold clear water—uncomfortable, yes, but an unlimited supply, so she wasn't going to complain—and slipped under the blankets.

Neville was warm against her. She blinked, laughed.

"About time you warmed back up," she said. "Hope you're ready for some serious sparring tomorrow. Haven't gone soft during your convalescence, have you?"

"Far from it," he replied, guiding her hand down his chest.

Indeed.

They made love twice, the first time slow, almost tentative, reminding Hermione—in those moments where she could think cogent thoughts—of their first fumbling explorations in that dark no-time between Harry's death at the end of the Triwizard Tournament and the utter collapse of the wizarding world the year after. Some of her only fond memories of that year came from those stolen moments with Neville, pleasure and protection both from the turbulence surrounding them.

The second time was something else altogether, animal, limbs wrapped around each other as she rode him moaning, yelling, his body flushed with heat, blankets thrown aside as they sweated the darkness away, sticky bodies pressed together afterwards, the encroaching chill of the room warded off by his sudden warmth. She fell asleep still mumbling sweet meaningless nothings in his ear. Too tired to notice that he was still wide awake, tears in his big brown eyes, the smile fading fast as a memory.

* * *

 

Still desolate. _Less windy, though._ Her hands wrapped around a mug of coffee, carefully brewed early this morning. She had thought the smell would have roused Neville, but despite his returning energy he remained unconscious. _Not to say I'm not a bit worn out myself,_ she thought, smirking.

She reached out her hand, feeling the tingle of the wards, false heat to complement the real warmth in her hand, in the bed downstairs.

Felt them collapsing like a house of cards.

"What—"

They appeared, then, six figures standing in the scraggly grass. Four wore the masks of Death Eaters. One had a shock of blazing red hair, was already kneeling on the ground. The last looked up at Hermione as the wards dissipated, a look like hunger on her cold, cold face.

"Bellatrix," Hermione breathed.

"Fancy meeting you here, little Hermione," the woman said, her voice like nails. "Such a lovely place for a summer cottage."

Ginny looked up, tears in her eyes. "I— My parents, Bill, Victoire, I couldn't— Cruciatus—"

"Oh, _do_ shut up," Bellatrix said, glaring. Wand out. "Avadra Kevadra!"

Sickly green light flowed across the barren landscape like poison.

Hermione's wand was in her hand, the anti-magic wards that had kept them safe from spying collapsed, and she gestured—

The wand flew from her hand with a gesture from Bellatrix, who laughed as she stepped over Ginny's body, merely another casualty in the long war. "Never got around to teaching you the good stuff, did they? Shame on old Dumbledore. You were just the type for an accelerated curriculum."

The masked Death Eaters followed in Bellatrix's wake, Hermione frozen in place as they approached.

"Now, my love, you _will_ tell me everything you know, whether you want to or not. Little Loony Luna was a delightful amuse-bouche last month, and Ginevra here a pleasant enough entrement, but you, dear." She tapped her teeth with her wand. "Quite the main course."

Hermione closed her eyes, ignoring the warm breath of the older woman on her face.

 _One-two._

 _One-two._

 _One-two._

**Author's Note:**

> This story's point of divergence, as the text implies, is the Triwizard Tournament. In this world, Voldemort was successful in his bid to kill Harry Potter and absorb his magical essence via the Dark ritual described in the novel. It takes place roughly three years later, after the wizarding world has fundamentally collapsed under the iron fist of the Dark Lord.
> 
> I appreciate any and all feedback, both positive and negative. This is the first bit of fanfiction I've written in, well, a very long time, and the first work I've completed in the Potterverse.


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